When you write regularly about sexism, an odd thing starts happening. Emails pop into your inbox (all penned by men) demanding you stop holding forth on the globe’s ovary-owners. “Aren’t there bigger worries in the world?” they demand. Which is strange, because when I wrote only about the stock market, that didn’t seem to trouble anyone, nor have I ever heard of a football correspondent being routinely scolded for focusing on the young men who destroy lawns for a living.

God forbid you touch on a lighter subject, though. For you can’t bemoan the sexism of advertising (which — incidentally — often patronises men too), without one of these chaps asking why you aren’t devoting your energies to ending female genital mutilation. For women can only care about one issue at a time, apparently.

But what stops me, when I read one of these rants, from unhooking my bra and searching for some lighter fluid is that there has never been a less lonely time to be making the case for equality.

Currently, the Everyday Sexism Project is documenting the daily jabs to the female spirit — from catcalling to unequal pay — while the No More Page 3 Campaign is asking The Sun to end the newspaper industry’s version of a pervy uncle, whose sole purpose for staying in the paper in the age of internet porn seems to be to annoy feminists.

This Sunday, the two campaigns are teaming up for a comedy night — Stand up to Sexism — at the Harold Pinter Theatre, thus addressing another issue: the silly stereotype of the women’s libber as a humourless harridan. Meanwhile, at the Royal Court, feminism underpins Lucy Kirkwood’s darkly funny play NSFW, which suggests that the ’sleb magazines that trade in circles of shame (A spot! A bunion! Six fingers like Anne Boleyn!) can be just as cruel to women as lads’ mags are.

Then there’s the list Woman’s Hour is currently compiling of the 100 most powerful women in the UK, which draws attention to the male domination of influential roles. In mixed-sex accolades, on average only 15 per cent of those who make the cut are women, and often some of those will owe their appearance to the man they have married. So perhaps the judges should let 15 men on to the list to ram that point home (Prince Philip, perhaps, as well as Theresa May’s hubbie). There’s a second, even more important list that is currently being put together, too. The Women’s Room, an index of female experts, is intended to help address the lack of female voices on the radio and female faces on TV.

So to those behind the email invective, I’m afraid women’s voices will only be getting louder and more numerous. We’re not going to quieten down until equality has been won.

Let Oscar mind games begin

Having recently dubbed the Oscar race “total, utter bullshit”, Joaquin Phoenix tried a corrective this week. In an interview with the Sydney Morning Herald, the actor — tipped for his role in The Master — said his nomination for Gladiator had clearly boosted his standing. “It’s not like I f**king hate the Oscars,” he added. “What I was reacting to was sometimes the reverence that we have about these things.”

I’d guess the original outburst was part of an ingenious plan to ensure that the statuette is his this time. For how better to silence the only actor in Hollywood who is speaking sense than by dragging him over to the dark side? Just like those who rail against the honours system and yet jump joyfully to the Palace when they get the nod, I’ll bet Phoenix attends the ceremony. But boy, he had better not cry now.

Super VAT: it’s a no-brainer

In the fight against tax avoiders, the attention has now turned to those naughty foreign firms who consider paying corporation tax the preserve of their weaker competitors. But we mustn’t forget those naughty deep-pocketed folk who consider paying tax to be the preserve of us plebs.

Since the dark arts of the bean-counters are finally getting the coverage they deserve, I propose a tax they will struggle to help their rich clients avoid: a super-VAT rate on the most luxurious goods. Sales taxes are, of course, usually regressive but this would hit the 0.01 per cent: those who consider the Financial Times’ supplement, How to Spend It, a shopping list and who feature in Chrystia Freeland’s brilliant book, Plutocrats. So when they buy a Bugatti to keep the Lamborghini company, or a Patek Philippe to “look after for the next generation”, they’ll pay this rate. Since these are arguably both “Veblen goods” — where they become more desirable as the price climbs — I suspect it won’t even hurt sales.

Old dogs can teach us tricks

The Today programme yesterday promised to reveal the secret of happiness. After a 72-year study by the Harvard Medical School — no doubt costing some insane sum — its current director shared what I could have imparted for free: if you want to be more content (and — before the RSPCA calls in — you have the spare time and space), get a puppy.

This was oddly well-timed for me, as Saturday will see a much-wanted addition to my family: Wilbur, a former racing dog we are adopting from the charity Greyhound Rescue West of England. At 11, Wilbur clearly can’t be classed as a puppy, but old dogs can equally teach humans the tricks of happiness: affection, an extreme appreciation of food and the habit of howling at the men and women from Royal Fail.